


Life before her Eyes

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 10:50:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6151183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: Hi, i have a promt for you :) Root gets hurt in a mission where she was supposed to get critical intel, she falls comatose before getting the info to Harold. Machine is monitoring her brainwaves while comatose and translates them into pictures, or short videos so they can get that info, and shaw can maybe stumble while root was dreaming of her? :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life before her Eyes

She can still hear the distant screams of anger and betrayal tailing her, but she doesn't turn around. The sound carries in the wind; she can taste it in the air and see the anguished man's face in the clouds. She could see it in his eyes- how weeks of absolute trust crumbled in an instant when she revealed her true cards. She was never on his side, and she never cared about protecting his life- only what he possessed.

Root discards her thoughts with the shake of a head, snapping open her wristlet and pulling out a small mirror. She goes through the motions of fixing her hair, all the while her eyes search the mirror for anyone who could be tailing her. _There's nothing wrong with a little paranoia_ , especially with the last three weeks she'd had. She'd kicked quite a large hornet's nest in the field, and as much as she wanted to rid herself of the adventure, she knew better than anyone that the mission wouldn't be entirely over until she returned to the station.

With a last sweep of the sidewalk behind her, Root stows the small mirror away, finally approaching the street corner. She looks around her- at the traffic patterns and shadows on the ground- trying to estimate the time. She'd been deprived of most any electronic devices for weeks, forced to store every detail of every encounter in her head. _Eleven a.m._ , she says to herself. _It has to be eleven a.m._ And, sure enough, just as Root stops and leans against the corner brick building, a sleek, black SUV with tinted windows pulls up, waiting for her. Just as they'd planned.

* * *

 

For the first time in twenty-one days, Root is able to breathe. A smile threatens to slip onto her features as she thinks about the person in the driver seat- how good it will feel to see her again. To be able to listen to her hostile remarks, and to toy with her hair from the backseat, causing them to nearly swerve off the road. She'd missed that- she'd missed it a lot.

Pulling the door open, Root swiftly steps into the backseat, door barely shut before the vehicle starts rolling once more. Now, Root can feel the smile on her lips as she holds her tongue, waiting for just the right moment to say-

She stops, peering up at the driver. _It's not her_ , Root realizes, the shock that comes with it bringing a pang to her chest. _It's not Shaw_. The icy blue eyes of the driver flicker into the rearview mirror as he takes in her faltering smile.

"Expecting someone else?" John Reese asks, bringing his eyes back to the road as he executes a split second lane change. Horns blare around them, red faces contorting in fury from the surrounding cars. Root licks her lips, sitting back in her seat.

"Expecting a better greeting," Root lies, forcing the majority of her disappointment from her tone. She brings a smile back to her features as he scans the mirror once more. "No 'Welcome back'?" She asks jokingly, and she watches his eyes soften with the hint of a smile.

"Don't worry," he assures her. "Fusco's got a _huge_ party planned for you." Root laughs, a genuine laugh, and her despondent mood begins to evaporate. Leaning forward, Root rests her forearms on the center console of the car, peering out the front window. She can feel John's eyes on her, but she ignores them, focusing on the grey highway that touches the grey sky on the horizon. "She was going to be here," John tells her quietly, and Root turns her face to the passenger window, not wanting him to see her face. She rolls her jaw, eyes searching the blurs of bare trees for a response.

"I hear a but coming," Root comments at last, turning to face him. He nods slowly, eyes sorting out how to word his next explanation.

"There's a number we've been working on," Reese tells her, voice a mix between his usual straight forward manner, and a subtle kindness that he reserves for her when they are alone. A microscopic undercurrent that says he knows exactly what's on her mind, and that he understands it. "The guy was set up for dinner tonight, but last minute asked for it to be lunch instead." The word ' _date_ ' screams inside Root's head, and she's grateful Reese has cleverly skirted around it. "We think whatever he's planning to do, he'll be doing tonight." Root nods absent-mindedly, wondering how long they've had this number, how far Shaw's cover goes, and if Shaw's missed her at all. "She wanted to turn him down," Reese tells her, reading her thoughts once more. "Tell him she had other plans already." She knows he's saying it to make her feel better, and perhaps it would have, if she'd allowed herself to believe it.

Instead, she sits up a little straighter, pushing all thoughts to the back burner save for one.

"Can I borrow your phone?" She asks, mind back on the mission. "There are some things Harold needs to know sooner rather than later." John does nothing a moment, as if he's debating upon reiterating his previous point or letting it go. At last, he chooses the latter, and slips his cell from his pocket, holding it out to her. She takes it with a clever smile, showing him that he has nothing to worry about.

She dials quickly, holding the cell to her ear as she listens to it ring.

"Mr. Reese," Harold greets, an air of relief in his voice. "Is Miss Groves with you?"

"We're on our way home now, Harry," Root coos into the receiver, smile growing on her features at hearing his voice again.

"Miss Groves," he greets shakily, obviously surprised to hear her voice. "Is everything alright? Where's John?"

"Stop _worrying_ ," Root tells him playfully, holding out on the answer as long as possible. She leaves a silent stretch of time between them, letting the curiosity and concern on Finch's end build before continuing. "The big lug is fine," she assures him, eyes flickering up to Reese. "But there's something I have to tell you," she says, tone turning serious. "It's about the program." Harold waits for her to continue. She can feel her breath picking up, heart drumming with the thrill of all she's discovered. "It's more than what She ever expected it would be, it's a-"

An earsplitting crash erupts from behind as glass shatters all around her. A millisecond later, a hole appears in the front windshield, the tinted glass becoming a spiderweb of fractures. It takes another moment of shock before Root realizes a burning pain is spreading at the side of her head, left ear ringing. Numbed from the moment, Root brings a hand to her ear, drawing it back with a light coating of blood on her fingers.

"Hold on," Reese instructs, throwing the car into the right lane, swerving around cars and picking up speed. More gunshots fire off, and Root ducks her head down low, grabbing her firearms from her waistband.

"What was that?" Harold demands, voice laced in fret. His voice is filled with cotton, and Root finds it impossible to distinguish what he's said.

"I'll call you back," she tells him, her own voice sounding muddied as she hangs up. Then, sitting on her knees, she rests her arms on the edge of the shattered back window, eyes scanning for the source of the firefight.

There.

There's a deep blue pickup truck tailing them, along with a white van, both firing off round after round at them. Reese continues to swerve between lanes, evading as many bullets as possible. Root begins to return fire, straining to aim with the unpredictable, jerking movements of the car, and the deafening ring in her ear.

"Root!" Reese calls from the front seat, although she doesn't seem to hear. "Root, I said hold on!" He's yelling, trying to get her attention, but it doesn't work. Suddenly, one of the gunmen hits the back tire, and the entire car capsizes.

With a cry of surprise, Root is thrown across the backseat as the car begins to tumble, spinning out of control in every direction.

 _Smack!_ Her back is slammed against the left-hand door, guns flying from her grasp. _Smack!_ Her knees explode as they connect with the right-hand door. _Smack!_ Her nose bursts with blood as it is jammed against the back of the passenger seat. _Smack!_ The back of her head hits down with a sickening crack against the door handle of the back door, just before the seat belt buckle digs into her temple. All the tenseness of her limbs goes slack, leaving her to fly about the backseat like a rag doll in a tornado. Again and again she hits every hard surface, bruising every inch of her body and bringing a sharp, unbearable pain to her head. Her eyes roll about her skull as if her optic nerves severed entirely. Her vision is blurred and dimmed, allowing her to see mere tidbits of the scene. The sky on the ground. The trees spinning. Reese shielding his face. Glass like rain. Skidding down the road, tires up. _Or are they down?_ She is unable to tell.

Then, all motion comes to a halt, and Root finds her neck craned back at an awkward angle, yet the agony in her muscles is too heavy to reposition. She sees the seats above her head, and a thick chunk of glass hanging precariously over her chest from one of the cushions. She wants to move- _I have to move_ \- but everything grows all the more heavy. The pain multiplies, each nerve in her body bursting as the overwhelming hurt crushes her from all sides. Her chest feels on the brink of collapsing, and her head is no more useful than a ball of lead. Her eyes fall out of focus for a moment, and when they regain themselves, she finds Reese's face in front of hers, the car seats replaced with the sky. His mouth moves, but there is no sound. The only thing she can hear is the screaming of her head as it drowns in agony. Like large, ominous hands, the feeling takes her over, covering her mouth and her ears and her eyes as it pulls her down into darkness. Everything goes black, and like a plug pulled from a socket, all the power flowing through her circuits goes dead.

_______\ If Your Number's Up /_______

Sameen Shaw scrubs her hands in the bathroom sink, rubbing her skin raw as she tries in vain to remove the blood from her hands. From under her fingernails. From her wrists, and her forearms. The water runs a vibrant pink down the drain, slowly but surely becoming clear once more. With a sigh, Shaw removes her now sore hands from the water, peering up at the bathroom mirror to see a few speckled dots of blood across her nose and forehead. Using the back of her wet hand, she rubs it off. Peering down at her gray t-shirt, more of the sticky crimson greets her eyes. Finally, she can't take it. Ripping the shirt over her head, she hurls it at the trashcan, anger bubbling up and boiling over. _How the hell did this happen_ , she growls to herself, mind cluttered with enough thoughts to grow a migraine. _If I'd been there, this wouldn't have happened,_ she snarls.

Slamming her hand against the tiled wall, she feels the sharp knives of pain run down her hand, and it calms her. She can deal with the physical things. She can _control_ the physical things. But she couldn't control this. _Why couldn't I have controlled this._

Storming from the long abandoned public restroom, Shaw stalks back to their subway station headquarters, mind still reeling. _How many times have we gotten out of car chases unscathed? Why was this any different?  
_

She heads towards the train car, barely acknowledging Reese's presence as he sits on one of the plastic seats, allowing Harold to finish bandaging the last piece of an extensive laceration down the side of his face. At seeing her, Reese stands, pushing down the stiffness in his muscles as he approaches her. She has half a mind to wheel around and nail him; to stick her thumb in one of his fresh wounds. Instead, she remains facing away from him- facing Root.

On a cot they'd ' _borrowed_ ' from the nearest available hospital, she lays motionless, IV on one side and heart monitor on the other. Shaw takes her in, everything from her pale complexion to the new stitches dotting her skin and the bruising under her eyes from a broken nose. After over an hour of picking out miniature shards of glass and cleaning the blood from every wound, Root has yet to stir. Her heart is pumping; she's breathing, but there is no sense of consciousness. Shaw'd tried shaking her, cold water- the works. _Nothing works_ ; and she's dreading having to make the official call.

"She hasn't woken up yet," Reese tells her somberly, and her lip twitches with sneer.

"I can _see_ that," she seethes between clenched teeth, hands balling into fists. "Why don't you try telling me something I _don't_  already know." The hostility that edges her voice is biting, yet Reese holds his tone impeccably casual.

"Like..?" Shaw's nails dig into her palms, and she feels as if she might burst a vein if her muscles coil any tighter. Spinning around in one quick motion, her eyes flare with agitation and accusation.

"You can start by explaining to me how the _hell_ this ever _happened_ ," she spits out. "Are you _really_ that bad of a driver?"

"We were being _shot_ at, Shaw." Aggravation begins to crawl into his voice, but it's not enough. Shaw wants him angry, she wants him as fuming and as pissed at himself as she is.

"That's never been a problem before," Shaw points out snidely, and John's mouth creases with an irritated frown.

"They've never hit our _tires_ before," he shoots back. "If you think _you_ could have done better, then maybe _you_ should have been there instead." Frost coats his words, but Shaw is too heated by anger to feel the cold.

"I don't _think_ ," she hisses, "I know. I _know_ I could've done better."

"Well, when she wakes up, be sure to tell her that," John shoots back, a hint of cruel, haughty humor in his voice, eyes growing dark. She watches the black mix of guilt and fury overtake his features, and crosses her arms. "Right after you tell her the _real_ reason you weren't there to pick her up today." Shaw's eyes ignite with indignation.

"And what does _that_ mean," she demands, flames leaping from her tongue.

"That you jumped on the opportunity to make lunch plans. That you never thought about picking her up when you were supposed to- because you were too wrapped up in an attractive number. Hope he was worth _this_." Shaw can feel the fire wracking her body, ears heating and steam billowing from her nose with each infuriated breath.

"We _both_ know that's not at all how it went down," Shaw spits back, voice a dangerously low growl. "Don't think for a _second_ you can blame _your_ mistake on me."

"Perhaps we shouldn't be arguing right now," Finch interrupts slowly but with an ever present air of authority. His eyes flicker between the two, then to Root. "For her sake." It's the last straw.

"She can't hear us," Shaw tells him coldly. Her eyes lock onto Reese's. "She's in a coma." The word seems to take him aback; it hurts him. It's evident, and Shaw hopes beyond all belief that eats him alive. Because, if the guilt consumes him, it won't be hungry enough come after her.

"And who's to blame for that, really," John mutters out just loud enough for her to hear. She takes a step towards him until they are less than a foot apart. She tilts her head straight up to look at him, making herself as big as possible against his impossibly tall figure. Her eyes narrow to slits, breath hot and words livid.

"You can go straight to Hell," she tells him icily before brushing past him with a rough shove, walking to Root's bedside to check the IV- needing something else to preoccupy her mind. From behind, she hears Harold and John exchange a few words, then they escape the station, leaving Shaw alone with her thoughts and Root.

________\ We'll Find You /_______

"You want to do _what?_ " Shaw asks, staring at Harold blankly as he types rapidly on his computer, eyes alight.

"Connect Miss Groves to an fMRI system," he says once again, carrying his laptop to one of the plastic chairs beside Root's bed. "If we place sensors on certain parts of her head, then feed them through the computer program, we _should_ be able to see what she's thinking." All of it sounds like science fiction to Shaw, even the second time around.

"And the _Machine_ told you to do this?" She asks, skeptical. The glimmer in Harold's eyes falters.

"She told Mr. Reese," he responds simply, pausing a moment before starting up once more. "Have you ever heard of the scientists at UC Berkeley?" He asks her, and she shakes her head. "They created a way for a computer program to process brain waves into images- into videos. They subjected participants to movies in order to discover how their brain waves transferred, then, fed Youtube clips into the system as reference footage. Once the participants began to think, the computer was able to use those clips to recreate the brain waves." Shaw takes a moment to process all he's said, but it doesn't add up.

"There's two major problems with your plan, Harold," Shaw tells him bluntly, and he turns to look at her, eyes curious. "We've never studied her brain waves, one. _Two_ , do you really think a couple videos off of _Youtube_ will be able to show you what she learned about that program?"

"We haven't," he agrees, pulling a contraption that looks like fingers with white sensors on the fingertips from a large case. "But the Machine has been wired with her cochlear implant for years, reading and processing everything it comes across. And as for the stock footage," he continues, voice growing with a certain amount of satisfaction, "the scientists used Youtube for lack of a better source. _We_ have an artificial intelligence that sees and hears _everything_."

"If the Machine saw and heard everything, Root wouldn't have had to go on that mission in the first place," Shaw says flatly, and Harold's lips purse in distaste.

" _Almost_ everything," he corrects himself before bringing the alien contraption to Root's head. He looks to Shaw, awaiting her assistance, and- grudgingly- she complies. This is something she doesn't know will work, let alone be resourceful. And, at worst, she doesn't know if this will effect Root. What if it tells them what she's thinking at the cost of frying her brain entirely? She shakes her head free of the thought, deciding to place some faith into the Machine. _You were never wrong when I worked in the ISA_ , she projects outward, lifting Root's head slightly. _You_ better _not be wrong now._

Harold adjusts the contraption quickly, making sure each sensor is in its correct position before typing into his computer. Hitting enter, he sits back, watching the program accept the sensors, then take in her thoughts. Nothing happens, and Shaw rapidly grows impatient.

" _Now_ what?" She asks, folding her arms, brow creased in annoyance.

"Now, we wait for the Machine," he answers. Just then, Reese enters the subway cart, a slight limp on him that Shaw makes sure to note, but not acknowledge. _He's fine_ , she tells herself harshly. _He's not in a coma_. Still, he approaches her and, still, she fails to acknowledge his presence. He drops a paper bag onto the chair beside her, and the smell of pastrami and pepperonicis wafts up to greet her.

"You think you can apologize with a _sandwich_?" Shaw asks him, and he tilts his head, raising his eyebrows. Her stomach rumbles, and she gives her shoulder a shrug, pulling the bag open. _It's a good start._

_________\ Life Before her Eyes /________

The first time a picture popped onto the screen, the trio was completely captivated. The way the grain and the colors started as insignificant blobs before steadily progressing into blurred faces and buildings was entrancing, and each of them was mesmerized as they tried to decrypt the location and its significance. There's no sound in the program, but that doesn't stop the technology from being remarkably incredible.

For three hours now, they've watched small clips of Root's thoughts as they surface and disappear, yet they are almost no where closer to discovering what she knows. They'd seen the face of a man the Machine recognized as Alanzo Faiçe, the keeper of the program, and a bunker-type building that Harold has running against all other structures in the area. Other than that, the images have been nothing more than what appears to be dreams and memories. And after forty-five minutes of them, the Mayhem Twins had begun to turn it into a game, previous scuffle all but dead.

"Memory," Reese calls, deciding the newest round of their game. "This one is when Root was in God Mode," John tells her, sitting back in a chair with his legs crossed. Shaw, munching on a bag of popcorn, shakes her head.

"No," she tells him, mouth full. "That's from the first number she really worked with us; when she asked for two guns."

"Is not," he insists, amiable smile on his face as he leans in for a better look at the jumbled video. "You see the yellow? That's from the library we were in when the Machine called." The image shifts, flashes of white followed by blackness.

"Nice try," she shoots back, confident she's got this one. "The flashing is from the lights flickering on and off. And hey, hey see those," she tells him, pointing at two pinkish blobs forming in the background. "That's me and Fusco." Seeing the shapes take a slightly clearer form, Shaw can't help the quick, microscopic smile that surfaces on her lips at seeing life through Root's eyes- _or, at least her brain waves._ "That's where I told her the two gun thing was kinda hot." Reese says nothing, and a moment later, she feels eyes burning into the side of her head. Her gaze flickers to him, the does a double take at seeing the smirk on his features. " _What?_ " She asks, slightly defensive, shoving a handful of popcorn into her mouth. He gives a short laugh, shaking his head and turning back to the computer screen.

A couple minutes of blankness pass before vivid colors clash into sight. Shaw makes out what appears to be a well lit hallway, though she doesn't recognize where.

" _Mmm_... Dream," Shaw decides, and the next round begins. The picture spins, revealing someone behind her. The face is a blur, but they can make out a dark ponytail and equally dark clothes.

"That's you," Reese conquers, and Shaw chuckles.

"What makes you think that?"

"The height," Reese cracks; Shaw rolls her eyes in return. As the picture quality increases, Shaw can make out features of a face that could be hers, which only adds to her irritation. _This should be fun._

Focusing back in on the picture at hand, Shaw watches as the hallway melts into a door, then an apartment. _Or a hotel room. Or any place with blurry furniture._

"Whada you think?" Shaw asks Reese, and he leans back in his seat, ponderance written on his face.

"Her apartment," Reese concludes before turning to Shaw. "So," he asks with a casual grin. "What do you think you're _doing_ there?" She isn't sure, but something doesn't settle comfortably in the pit of her stomach. It's as if this thought is private, and having John see it- not knowing _what_ exactly he'll see- brings an eerie apprehension to her bones. Still, she sits back, taking in another handful of popcorn as she watches the brainwaves unfold.

Multicolored strings weave together, forming the next sequence to the video. Numbers and letters tear across a small column in the corner of the computer screen as the Machine compiles the data and plugs in the best available images into the video footage. At this point, the Machine has positively identified Shaw from the information gathered, thus placing a clearer image in place of her. She watches herself walk about Root's vision, mouth moving but no sound escapes. Shaw watches herself give Root a small smile as she takes off her jacket, throwing it on a grainy version of a sofa.

"Just got done with a mission?" Shaw offers as she chews. She watches herself draw closer, and Shaw's heart begins to drum. Everything dissolves into darkness, reappearing in a different setting. A side table constructs itself, then pillows, then covers, then a smile surrounded by messy brown hair. The strands of hair give to reveal a face. Shaw's face.

Shaw chokes, the popcorn getting lodged in her throat, and she sits up, eyes beginning to water. Shock overthrows her as she tries to suck in a breath, equal parts wanting to see the dream through and shut it down for good. After a few seconds, Shaw regains her composure, drawing in a greedy gulp of oxygen, just to find a grin plastered to Reese's face.

"Still say dream?" He asks her humorously. "Or is this jogging your _memory?_ " Shaw can feel the heat in her ears as they glow a vibrant red, and she all but jumps to her feet.

"We're shutting this off," Shaw tells him stiffly, headed for the laptop.

"No!" Harold insists, rushing towards her. "We can’t risk missing any valuable information." Shaw grinds her teeth, growing livid as she stands before the small screen.

"Trust me, Harold, there's _no_ valuable information to get out of this."

"I don't _know_ , Shaw," Reese replies smugly, relishing her fluster. "There could be a clue within it that we'll miss if we shut it off."

"Don't you have a fake _job_ to _maintain?_ " Shaw asks snidely, eyes red with rage. His amusement slips with a twinge of annoyance, yet- knowing their situation is still fragile from the morning- he takes the hint without much fight.

"Give me a ride?" He asks Harold, gesturing to his sling-bound arm. On a normal day, the wound would never limit his capabilities, yet this isn't so normal. Finch, nodding, grabs his jacket and keys.

"If anything progresses, call," Harold tells Shaw, who gives a short nod, unsure how to express her understanding and gratitude. She waits for them to go, listening to their footsteps as they fade into silence, before finally relaxing and stepping away from the screen. The dream continues to play out as she peers back; she groans. Looking over at Root's comatose form, she tries hard to remain indignant, but finds the front quickly eroding.

"You did this on purpose, didn't you?" Shaw asks her, although there is a hint of humor in her tone. Rolling her eyes, Shaw sits back in her chair, propping her legs up on the edge of Root's cot. "You just _wait_ until you wake up."

_____\ Person of Interest /_____

Root springs into a sitting position, eyes bursting open as she sucks in a ragged breath, throat and lungs on fire. Instantly, sharp pain jabs at her brain and chips at her skull, making her wince. Her chest aches; her abdomen aches; her skin aches. A beeping greets her ears, each ping of noise driving another bullet into her brain.

Her nails dig into soft fabric as her fists clench, trying to keep her balance. Everything around her spins.

There's darkness. Everything is bathed in darkness. Her first thought is,  _Am I blind?_ She's unsure, and pushes past the pain in her side to search around. She needs to find something that will tell her where she is. _Where am I?_

She spots a monitor riddled in numbers and acronyms, a green line spiking and dropping with each infuriating beep. She doesn't understand what any of it means. Then, she feels it. The sticking circles clinging to her chest. Bringing a hand to the space over her heart, she feels the wires connected to them. _What's going on. What is this._ In a frantic rush, she rips the three circles off, instantly sending the monitor into bedlam. All numbers drop to red zeros, spiked lines dropping flat as a skull splitting beep holds its pitchy tone out. She clasps her hands over her ears, closing her eyes tight. _What the hell is this._ Within the instant, lights flicker on, and Root can feel the pale light on her skin. The noise dies, and a minute later, Root drops her hands.

Her muscles scream with each heavy breath she takes, yet she pushes past it all, ready to fight. Whatever this is- wherever _she_ is- she's prepared to fight. Footsteps drag slowly along the floor, echoing in soft, short bursts. She waits, fists clenched, for the footsteps to draw nearer. _Open your eyes on the count of three, push whoever it is into the nearest wall, and go._

Another footstep hits, and Root's mind flashes to Alanzo, wretched scowl on his face. The next step brings the metallic taste of blood in her mouth as she bites her tongue, dodging bullets and returning fire, escaping the fallout shelter with one last shot to Alanzo's shoulder. He drops, but his goons keep coming.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

Eyes popping open, the brightness of the room blinds her at first, yet she doesn't allow it to slow her down. Blinking, she begins to push herself up, blurred figure coming into focus. Part of her wants to know who it is- which henchman has her- but she doesn't have the time. Throwing her legs over the side of the cot, she stands.

Only to drop like a bird without wings. Her knees slam against the floor, hip following through with an equal amount of pain. Her left hand slams agains the metal floor, yet her arm is surprisingly weak, doing nothing to stop her graceless descent. A hand wraps around her right wrist, and her shoulder feels nearly ripped from its socket as she halts abruptly, face inches from the floor. Something about the floor seems familiar.

Her gaze slowly follows a crease in the metal ground, finding a row of neatly placed plastic chairs. Thick, scratched glass windows; hanging yellow lights incased in small cages.

_Shaw._

It takes Root a minute to process the scene. Shaw, peering down at Root with an equal mix of irritation and curiosity, has both of her hands wrapped around Root's wrist. Root tilts her head to the side, smile working its way onto her confused face.

"Hey, Sweetie," she greets in a slow, warm tone as she tries to sort out the situation. "What's going on?"

" _You_ tell _me_ ," Shaw replies before beginning to hoist Root up. Root tries to help, but finds her legs are Jello. Once to her feet, Root can't help but to lean the entirety of her weight on Shaw's side as she gingerly sits back on the bed. Looking around, everything begins to make sense. _The heart monitor was beeping; it's gotta be night..._ But one question remains. _What happened?_ "Great job ripping _this_ out," Shaw cracks pessimistically, rolling an IV bag out of the way and grabbing gauze from a nearby chair. She presses it to Root's forearm, and a tingle shoots through her nerves, awakening long dormant butterflies. Peering from her arm up to Shaw, her heart catches in her throat, finding Shaw's face so close and eyes so brilliant.

"How long have I been out?" Root asks, voice crackling from lack of use. _A couple hours maybe, if it's night? Maybe seven or eight?_

"Four days," Shaw responds simply, voice ungiving and even. As if it had only been for minutes- four seconds. _How could it be four days?_ The surprise must register on Root's face, for Shaw takes a seat on the edge of the cot, making sure to keep her tone neutral. "What's the last thing you remember?" She asks, and Root sits back, trying to recollect.

Gunfire. The bunker igniting with the cacophonous sounds of bullets ricocheting on metal surfaces. The flash drive of information she stowed in her jean pocket before making her way through the labyrinth of cramped hallways without help. Without the Machine in her ear and without backup. She remembers hitting the street; the icy air contrasting so starkly to the stuffy, warm bunker air that it sent knives through her heart and barbs into her lungs.

Twenty, thirty more feet before the tone.

_‘Can. You. Hear. Me?’_

Then blank. Everything is blank.

"I had a flash drive," Root responds, pulling herself back from the clouded thoughts in her mind. "It's-" Root reaches to her pocket, only to find nothing there. Jeans- _yes_. Pocket- _yes_. Flash drive- _no_. She shoves her fingers into every corner of the pocket, then the one on the opposite side. "I just had it," Root mutters, trying to remember.

"Red?" Shaw asks, and relief floods Root's system as she nods. "Harold tried playing with it. Corrupted," she informs Root, whose heart begins to sink. "All the blood messed it up."

"What blood?" Root asks, pushing herself up a little straighter. Something cryptic flashes in Shaw's eyes. "Sameen..."

"Come here," Shaw commands tersely, switching gears entirely. "You look like an _idiot_ with that thing on your head." Root's hands instinctively reach towards her hair, only to graze hard plastic strips enveloping the space. Shaw pulls it off with ease, and a slight pressure Root hadn't noticed before releases.

"What _is_ that?" Root asks, crinkling her nose as the mysterious contraption.

"Some fMRI program thing," Shaw replies, absent-mindedly. "It hooks up to the computer and shows us what you're thinking. Harold thought it would show us whatever intel you got before- this."

A million questions surface in Root's head as small bursts of thought crackle in and out of her memory. A black SUV; a highway; a car seat. _What was 'this'? Why did they have to monitor what was going on in my head? Why can't I remember the last four days?_ Yet, she pushes them all away, settling for something else holding her attention.

"Did it work- you know- what did you see?" The idea of transferred brainwaves and seeing it on the computer is an enticing curiosity that, for the minute, is able to take her away from the confusion surrounding her. Shaw presses her lips together in thought, fingers toying with the head gear as she gazes intently into Root's eyes. Root tries to understand what's within, but becomes lost in doing so, and her heart starts to soar once again.

"Everything was grainy; new technology and all," Shaw tells her at last, although something in her voice says that there is more to the story. It says Shaw is withholding something that she _just_ might reveal. Root leans in, ignoring the pangs of sharp pain that grip her every few centimeters, waiting to hear more. Shaw's eyebrows raises the slightest bit.

Then, Root realizes just how far she's leaned. Inches from Shaw's face with the warmth of Shaw's breath on her skin. She begins to draw back, but finds it exceedingly strenuous. While she's awaken, it dawns on her that her muscles have yet to get the memo. Shaw looks her over, eyes contemplating something Root still can't configure: _What did she see, and why won't she tell me?_

Wiping her hands down the front of her jeans, Shaw stands, leaving a splash of cold air to wash over Root's face. "C'mon," Shaw tells her, sticking out a hand. "You won't feel any better if you just sit there." As intrigued as Root is- as much as she direly wants to press the subject of the fMRI system- Root drops the subject. Though her movements are ragged, she manages to push herself back up, sliding off the cot until her toes touch the icy floor. She puts nearly all of her weight on her legs before she feels them begin to twitch and tremble under her. Looking to Shaw, then to her extended hand, Root takes it, pulling herself the rest of the way up in one solid movement. Although her knees begin to buckle, with Shaw's hand around her arm, she finds she has more control than her first attempt at standing. Steeling her stomach, Root coils her left hand around the IV's pole and takes her first step towards recovery.

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the website centered on the UC Berkeley Scientists:
> 
> http://www.businessinsider.com/inception-is-real-2011-9
> 
> I highly recommend you watch the video at the bottom of the article; it shows what the reconstructed images actually look like through brain waves.


End file.
